


the hunter games

by queer_occurrences



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, But with a happy ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Featuring: s4 era Cas, Fix-It of Sorts, Fuck the CW, I have feelings about the finale okay, Idiots in Love, M/M, Meta, Minor Benny Lafitte/Dean Winchester, Mutual Pining, Protective Castiel (Supernatural), Protective Dean Winchester, Rebellion, Rivals to Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Spoilers for Episode: s15e18 Despair, Spoilers for major plot events of S4-S15, Trans Dean Winchester, Trans Male Dean Winchester, in very vague fashion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:34:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28442502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queer_occurrences/pseuds/queer_occurrences
Summary: Castiel’s hair is messy, and his eyes are soft, and he looks—well, in this light, he’s breathtaking.“I’m gonna die, Cas,” says Dean. As if he’s appealing to someone who cares.Dean volunteers to replace Sam in the Hunger Games. Cas is really, really good with knives.
Relationships: Bobby Singer & Dean Winchester, Bobby Singer & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Charlie Bradbury & Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 55
Kudos: 61





	1. 1

Dean waits until Sam’s feigned sleep long enough to have actually gone under. Then he slips out.

Tomorrow is the reaping, so nobody is sleeping deep. Means it’s not a good night to hunt, but you do what you gotta do, and they’ve been eating rabbit food for dinner almost a week now—the shit Sam gathers. Dean won’t eat that stuff, half cause he can’t stand it and half cause if he throws a big enough stink Sammy will eat it all. Dean’s getting all see through and Sam ain’t much better. It’s time to hunt. No matter what he promised.

The gun in its holster is a smooth pressure against Dean’s leg. He got it from his dad, a few years before John Winchester went on a hunting trip and never came back. If Heaven knew he had it, he’d be gone. It’s dark, so dark Dean has to move by instinct mostly instead of by sight, and once he reaches the fence he straps on the night vision goggles they handed out for the orchard workers, that he got from Lisa for a couple of rabbits. All of a sudden he can see. He listens to the hum of electricity while he makes his way to the place where the fence opens up. The jagged hole. Big enough for a kid and not much else. Not big enough to be safe, as Sam has told Dean upwards of a hundred times, and Dean knows.

Dean ducks through, one step, and he’s out. He exhales, hard, presses his hand to his chest like he’s reminding himself he still has a heartbeat. If they’d fixed the fence—

Well, he wouldn’t be here to worry about it. He pulls the gun out. The metal glints even in the dark.

They’re not nice woods—these woods, just outside District 11. If you’re lucky, it’s just the coyotes that you’ve got to worry about. If you’re unlucky, tracker jackers. Dean likes the woods, though. The big trees that lift their heads to the sky like Sammy when he prays. There aren’t trees in this part of Panem, really, except here. They all got razed to make room for fields and orchards. Dean stands at the base of an oak and looks up. The sky looks a bit blue. A squirrel skitters out along one of the branches and Dean glares at it, but keeps walking. He’s got to get far enough away that nobody hears the shot.

There’s a metal trip wire running along from the base of one tree to another. It’s old and rusty, probably from the time when Heaven first noticed District 11’s booming black market in wild game, back when they “sought to discourage this risky and unproductive pastime.” Dean snips it.

He bags a squirrel, sets a few traps he can check on later, and by then the sun’s starting to show. Sammy’s up with the sun, so Dean should be back with it.

Sam’s waiting in the doorway. When he sees Dean, he turns and stalks back inside. He slams the door behind him.

Dean sighs and follows.

“Sammy—“

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“I had to,” says Dean.

“Don’t.” Sam’s jaw is tight and his eyes flash. “I woke up when you closed the door. I’ve been—“ His voice breaks. “—waiting. You were gone for hours.”

“I thought—“

“Goddammit, Dean, you promised—“

“Look, it’s either I hunt, or we both starve,” says Dean. “I’d rather—“

“This isn’t about you,” Sam spits.

Dean holds up the squirrel. It swings gently in his grip, still dripping blood a bit. Sam’s eyes fix on it, move with it back and forth, and he looks like he’s going to be sick.

“I’m going to skin this,” says Dean, “and I’m going to make us a nice meal we can have after the reaping, and we can sell the pelt—“

“I’m going back to bed,” says Sam. “When I wake up, you—“ He falters, his face all screwed up so he can’t hardly get the words out. “You be here.”

Sam storms back into his room. He slams the door again, even harder this time. Dean stares dully at the closed door and looks down at the squirrel.

“Siblings, huh,” he tells it.

*

Dean butchers the corpse. He washes the blood and guts off his hands and cleans up his face, runs wet fingers through his hair so it sticks up. Squints and runs them through again.

Sam’s still silent, so Dean stomps extra angrily down the hall past the closed door and into his own room. More of a closet, really, with a cot and a bundle of clothes. Dean’s supposed to have a reaping outfit, or some shit like that, but that’s not in the cards, is it? He washed off one of his flannels yesterday and hung it up to dry. It’s clean now, probably. That’s enough. He shrugs it on, puts on his nice jeans that only have little holes in them and the belt with the gold buckle. There. Fine.

He gets out some of the greens Sam collected, chops up a wormy pear Sam stole off the ground in one of the orchards, and an old carrot. Arranges it into a little salad Sammy can have when he wakes up. “It’s healthy, Dean,” he mutters under his breath in a mocking way, and then he takes the pelt of the squirrel and some of the meat and heads to Bobby’s.

Security is tight in District 11, but not around Bobby. He won the Games a small age ago, and sank a long way since then, but he’s afforded that much respect. He’s got a little shop that doesn’t seem to sell much, but buys, especially the things it shouldn’t. Especially from the desperate kids who’ll do anything for a dime, who should’ve been disappeared or worse by now. Dean opens the door—a bell tinkles somewhere—and waves. “Miss me?”

“Oh, fuck off,” says Bobby. The shop smells a little like sweat and a lot like alcohol. Bobby’s wearing a T-shirt on that was white a long time ago, and he’s got rings under his eyes to match the wrinkles.

“I got a skin,” says Dean.

“Fuck you. Fuck you. Don’t you learn? Thought your idjit brother finally talked some sense into you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean slams it down on the counter. “How much?”

Bobby sighs. He digs into his pocket and starts to count out a few bills.

“Put some fat on that brother of yours,” he says.

“I’m tryin’,” says Dean.

“No, you’re tryin’ to get killed.” Bobby gives him a bleary, bloodshot glare from underneath his wiry hair and prickly grey eyebrows. “You’ve got to stop this, kid.” He holds out a couple of fives. Too much money. Dean takes it and stows it.

“Thanks, Bobby,” he says.

“Say hi to Sam for me.”

Bobby lets him get to the door before he says, “Dean?”

Dean turns, steeling himself against another warning. “Yeah?” he says sourly.

“Good luck today,” says Bobby. 

He’s solemn all of a sudden and so kind of haunted sounding that it makes shivers run up Dean’s spine. Bobby’s eyes stare out at Dean like glass replicas.

Dean jerks a nod and hurries off.

*

He runs into Sam the second he gets back. Sam’s all agitated looking with his hands in his pockets and a face like murder, and he’s wearing a shirt that used to be Dad’s. It’s too big on him.

“It’s almost time. What are you doing hanging around here for?” Dean barks.

Sam’s face goes even colder.

“I thought we were going to go together,” he says.

So they do. And Dean wraps an arm around Sammy to steer him through the crowd. It’s jam packed there in the square and they have to get to their places. Dean’s older, so he’s in the front, and Sam has to go a little ways back that feels like miles.

There are two big glass balls filled with little white slips. One for boys, one for girls. Dean’s slips got switched to the boys when he came out a couple years back and changed his name and pronouns and sold all his mom’s dresses. (Sam cried about the dresses, but it wasn’t like anybody was wearing them, and they’d never fit Dean anyway.) Next to the balls stands Metatron—sorry, “Marv”—their representative from Heaven, who’s supposed to make sure the reaping goes smoothly. Bobby stumbles out. He’s dead drunk in that way he only gets on reaping. As the only living victor from District 11, there’s a seat of honor reserved for him, with his name on it, but he misses, trips, and throws off anyone who tries to help.

The mayor steps up to the podium and gives the spiel, “we remember and we regret,” all that, and there’s a fly buzzing around and Dean’s itching to get at it, but everyone’s so damn quiet. 

He starts paying attention again when Marv says “Ladies first,” with a simpering smile. Marv thrusts his hand deep into the ball of slips and pulls out one. Just one.

Slowly, Marv walks to the podium, smoothing out the slip of paper in his hand, savoring it. Everybody’s eyes on him. He smiles again in his crooked yellowed way and reads, “Joanna Harvelle.”

Everybody gasps a little. Tiny blonde Jo Harvelle, Ellen’s girl. Everybody knows her. Everybody likes her. One time Dean ran into her out hunting and they stared at each other stock still like two deer until he smiled and put a finger to his lips. She’s fifteen with a future she keeps trying to throw away and a pointy chin she sticks up all the time. It sticks up as she picks her halting way to the podium. She’s so pale.

“Let’s give Joanna a big round of applause,” says Marv. There’s a smattering of clapping, mostly awkward. Dean keeps his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t dare look back to see Sammy’s face.

“And now for our male tribute.”

There’s a choking, clawing feeling in Dean’s chest that’s eating him alive. He looks over at Bobby, and Bobby has his head buried deep in his hands.

“Samuel Winchester.”

“What?” says Dean. He says it too loud but no one looks at him, they’re looking behind him, at Sammy, and behind Dean people start to shift and make way for Sam to come through.

No, no—Sam’s never taken tesserae, never done nothing, he’s only thirteen, this isn’t—Sam’s coming up, lanky and absurdly tall with his stupid mop of hair and he comes up to where Dean is and won’t look Dean in the eyes. Dean steps in front of him. Throws his arms out.

“Dean,” says Sam, soft and resigned and gentle, a voice that says,  _ you’re embarrassing me. _

“I volunteer as tribute,” says Dean.

*

He stands there with Jo who won’t look at him and everybody claps and no one will look him in the eyes but it doesn’t matter because all Dean sees anyway is Sam. Sam in the front row with his face all wet and red and blotchy and his chin trembling.

*

They bring Sammy in to talk to him one more time. Sam’s stopped crying. He’s shivering a bit now. Dean hugs him the way he did when Dad didn’t come home and he can feel the shivers in Sam’s back, in his skin.

“They’re gonna ask questions when you’re the only loved one I got,” says Dean. “You tell them Dad’ll be back soon. He’s on a trip—“

“Yeah.”

“Got held up. But he’ll be back. Don’t take any tesserae. Eat your rabbit food. Steal what you can. Sammy—“

“Dean, I can’t do this,” says Sam.

Dean hugs him again.

“Yes. You can,” he says. “You have to. So you’re going to. And I’m gonna—“ He can’t force it out, the lie, but he has to, so he does. “I’m gonna win for you.”

Sam chokes on a laugh even though it isn’t funny at all. “That’d be something to see.”

“Don’t watch,” says Dean.

Sam blinks at him. “I have to.”

“Shut your eyes.”

He lets Sam cry into his flannel for a while and then Sam’s gone. It’s all gone.


	2. 2

Dean sits in the train and watches the TV. He’s still in his flannel, even though Marv’s given “strong encouragement” to change, and he’s only half listening as the screen plays reapings from across the country. He should scope out his competition. But they all blur together. By the end he can only remember a few. A dorky redhead from District 3 with flannel like Dean’s who stands next to the podium and smiles and waves almost cheerfully.  A boy, Benny, District 10, with a sharp grimace of a grin. A boy and a girl from District 12, both wearing black and looking better fed than the usual, who exchange sly smiles. Another boy with a trench coat that swishes against his knees when he walks, who stands stiffly, blank faced and sullen, with the bluest eyes Dean has ever seen. District 2. Castiel.

*

They have dinner. Heaps of burgers and fries in every conceivable shape, size, and color. Icy bottles of beer. Savory pies and sweet ones, and Dean stuffs himself so his hands are smeared with food like the blood of the squirrel just that morning. Marv looks at him like he’s a disease. Bobby is supposed to be there, but he hasn’t showed. Probably on a bender. Finally the rich food catches up with Dean and he has to run to the bathroom to puke. 

Dean huddles over the toilet and heaves. His stomach churns and his hands shake, and he can smell his own sweat that soaks through the flannel. He washes his hands.

When he comes back to dinner, they’re all gone except Jo. She’s cutting into a steak and eating it in little delicate bites as if she’s been well fed all her life. She doesn’t look up.

“Hey,” says Dean.

Jo purses her lips and pats them dry with the napkin.

“I don’t think we should talk,” she says. “We can in front of the others. When we have to. But I don’t want to talk to you otherwise.” She still isn’t meeting his eyes. Probably thinking about the time Dean walked her home from school, or how best to separate his head from his body and put it on a platter.

Dean swallows. The echo of bile sears his mouth and his throat.

“Fine by me,” he says.

*

Dean doesn’t want to see Heaven. He doesn’t have a choice.

He steps off the train and it’s everywhere. Only white—white buildings, white walls, even a white sky. All the people crowded around, cheering and screaming, are dressed without a speck of color. Jo smiles and waves, blows kisses, her hair gleaming in the bright light, and the people go crazy for her. Dean shoves his hands in his pockets and walks. He keeps his head up and his eyes down.

They make him take off the flannel. He’s got a meeting with his stylist, whose name is Balthazar. Dean stands naked in the middle of the room feeling like an idiot, and waits.

“Dean Winchester,” says a snide voice.

Balthazar looks like an aging peacock. He’s got color all over, an iridescent patchwork cloak like the wings of a beetle, a red and yellow floral shirt with a pink bow tie. Pinstriped green pants.

“They didn’t tell me you were transgender,” he says.

“Maybe it wasn’t their business,” says Dean.

Balthazar whistles. “Feisty,” he says, and he smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Not much, I hope.”

Balthazar prowls around Dean like a panther closing in. “Strong. Healthy. Attractive, but a bit…well, there’s nothing wrong with you.” He grips Dean’s chin with a shockingly cold hand and tilts it up. “Pretty green eyes. Yes, you’ll be fine. You shouldn’t grind your teeth so much. It makes you look constipated.” He pats Dean’s cheek, his fingers still digging into Dean’s jaw, not quite hard enough to bruise. “Smile for me.”

Dean only manages a smile when he remembers Balthazar designing outfits for the District 4 Careers last year. 

“Bet this wasn’t your first choice, huh,” he says. Balthazar’s eyes narrow into slits, but he smiles back, soft and amused.

“No,” he says, and releases Dean’s chin. “I put in a request for District 2. I was denied.”

“Nobody wants to be in charge of deadweight.”

“Shut your mouth,” says Balthazar. His eyes blaze, then soften. “You’re prettier when you’re quiet.” He smiles another fake, empty smile and starts to pace again.

“My boy Cassie’s in District 2,” he says. It’s a struggle to connect the affectionate twist of Balthazar’s voice to the boy standing like an ice sculpture in front of the roaring crowd. “I’d rather be with him. But you’ll do.”  _ At least you’re not a threat,  _ is in the offing, unspoken, until Balthazar says idly, “At least you won’t get in the way.”

“What are you gonna do to me, then?” says Dean. “Dress me up like a scarecrow?”

Balthazar eyes him.

“You really don’t care?” he says.

Dean shrugs. “I figure if I win, it won’t be from kissing butts.”

“Then you’re even stupider than you look,” says Balthazar. “No, I’m not going to sabotage you. All I’d end up hurting is my own reputation, and self-destructive as you are, it isn’t necessary. I thought we’d keep this simple. Classic.”

“Overalls?”

*

“Okay, this shit fucks,” says Dean. He twirls.

“What’s with the blanket?” says Jo.

“It’s a serape,” says Dean. He grins. “It’s traditional.”

“You look like an idiot.”

“Well, you look beautiful,” says Dean, because it’s true. She’s got some kind of cowgirl-princess fusion thing going, with her hair braided back and a leather jacket embroidered with roses over a blue tunic. Simple. Sexy.

Jo looks at him with an expression somewhere between exasperation and affection. It makes Dean remember, and he looks away. He adjusts his hat.

Balthazar and Jo’s stylist, Dumah, load them into their chariot. Dean scans the room for the faces of the other tributes—it’s hard to distinguish anyone through the frills and feathers of their costumes. The only one he recognizes is Castiel, who seems to have resisted any attempts by the stylists to dress him. He’s wearing his trench coat, no makeup, and his hair is sticking up like he’s just rolled out of bed. Balthazar notices Castiel, too, and scowls.

The opening music plays. The doors open. The cheers are deafening. Just as their chariot starts to move, Jo seizes Dean’s hand.

“What are you doing?” Dean hisses.

“We need to seem friendly. We’re friends,” says Jo.

“We’re not friends.”

“Do you want to survive or not?”

Dean’s chest is tight. He lets Jo pull him into her space.

The crowd is immense. They cheer, they clap, they wave, and none of it matters, but together it’s all so loud. It’s like what Dean’s heard of the sea, the idea of something so unimaginably big and so powerful that it’s beyond your reach even at your feet. Something where the parts all blend together to form a roaring, stomping whole.

After it’s all over, he watches it replay on the TV in the Training Center over big forkfuls of blackberry pie. The him on screen looks mostly stunned, like he’s been hit over the head with a frying pan, and he stares at Jo a lot. Jo comes off pretty well, cute and spirited with a hint of fierce. And—Dean drops his fork. 

The district 2 tributes have wings.

It’s a weird effect. Castiel in his dirty trench coat next to the female tribute—her name’s Anna, Dean thinks, and she’s gotten all dolled up for the occasion. Her skin kind of glows, her eyes are crusted gold, and she’s dressed in a flowing white toga thing with a slim, glowing band on her head like a tiara or a halo. Next to her, Castiel looks like a bum off the street, but it’s weird. When huge white wings flicker into ghostly existence behind her, it just seems like more of the same. But when they show up on Cas, Dean can’t breathe.

Maybe it’s that he doesn’t look like he’s wearing a costume. The wings look like part of him. They’re not white like Anna’s, they’re dark, and iridescent, and shimmering, and they look like they’ve always been there. Like he’s chosen this moment to let the others see. And Castiel isn’t watching for a reaction. He’s gazing around kind of aimlessly with his hands at his sides and these great luminous things sticking out of his back like it ain’t no thing.

Dean’s hands are trembling a bit, but he eats another bite of pie without looking away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year!


	3. 3

Dean and Jo have breakfast with Bobby. He’s sobered up enough to bring the fork to his mouth, chew and swallow, but not much else. He glares at them the whole time as though they’ve personally offended him. Jo glares back. Dean just eats.

“We’re supposed to talk strategy,” says Jo. “And train. Right?”

Bobby doesn’t answer. He rubs at his red nose with a fist.

“How are we supposed to win if you won’t do anything?” says Jo.

“You’re not going to win.”

“Why don’t you fuckin’ try us?”

“You’re not going to win,” Bobby repeats, and reaches for a beer. Jo snatches it from his hand.

“Don’t be such a bitch baby,” she says. “This is your job. You only gotta deal with us for a couple more days. Do it right.”

Bobby stares at her. His mouth goes hard, and then crumples.

“What she said,” says Dean.

“You kids,” Bobby starts, and then says, “you don’t know.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Jo bursts out, “we don’t—“ But Dean gives her a look and she quiets.

Bobby inhales, long and wet and shaky. Exhales, longer and wetter and shakier.

“You want to train together?” he says. “Or separately?”

“Separately,” says Dean. He itches with the feeling of Jo’s eyes on him.

Bobby’s mouth twitches. His hand spasms as if to reach for another beer, but it stops short. “All right,” he says. “Dean.” He jerks his head. “Get.”

Dean snags a couple burgers on his way out.

*

Dean heads down to the pool. Half because he’s never seen one before, and he might as well before he dies. Half because he wants to see the other tributes before training starts tomorrow. The pool is located on the floor below District 12, and when Dean steps out of the elevator he’s hit with a smell unlike anything else. Sort of fresh and clean, but in an unnatural way. He heads into the dressing room and gets a nice pair of navy swim trunks in his size at the press of a button. When he comes out, the candidates from 12 are there.

They’re wearing black swimsuits and looking chummy. One of them is broad shouldered and scruffy, and the other one has long, dark hair and eyes like knives. Hair slides into the pool while Scruffy turns to Dean.

“Hey,” says Dean. “Don’t think we’ve met.” He sticks out a hand. “Dean.”

“Crowley.” Scruffy offers his hand gingerly, like he’s worried Dean will get it dirty. Odd behavior for a Twelve. Dean shakes it, anyway. Crowley has a limp handshake. “Pleasure.”

He drops Dean’s hand as soon as he can get away with it.

“Come on, coward,” Hair yells from the other end of the pool. “It’s nice and cold.”

Crowley shudders. “I’ll come in my own time,” he shouts back. “That’s Meg,” he adds in an undertone.

“You folks ever been in a pool before?” says Dean.

Crowley swallows, and casts a glance over his shoulder. “No.”

“Me, neither.”

The pool is colossal. It’s so deep Dean can’t see the bottom, and about three times the size of his entire house back home. He and Crowley wander to the edge and stand there looking down.

“Come  _ on,”  _ Meg whines. She pulls back her hand as if to splash them, but Crowley gives her a look that promises pain and she subsides. She slips under the surface and bobs back up. Her hair sticks to her neck. “You’ll hate it.” Her teeth gleam pearly white.

“Back up and I’ll jump,” says Dean.

“See, he’s fun,” says Meg. “Do a cannonball.”

“Do not,” says Crowley.

“What’s a cannonball?” says Dean.

Meg sweeps hair out of her eyes. “You curl into a ball mid jump so you make a mad splash.”

Dean looks at her. Looks at the water. Looks at Crowley, who backs away.

*

He shows up to training with Bobby a half hour late and dripping wet. Bobby’s hung over, though, so it evens out.

“What the hell happened to you?” Jo says when she passes him. Dean cheerfully flips her off and ducks inside.

“What the fuck happened to you?” says Bobby.

“Cannonball,” says Dean. “So, what’s my strategy?”

Bobby points to the chair across the table from him. “Siddown. What do you mean, cannonball?”

“I mean, pool…” Dean spreads his arms wide. “Meet Dean Winchester.” He winks. “Got a chance to scope out the competition, too.”

Bobby’s face goes slack.

“Oh, really?” he says. “Who?”

“Crowley ‘n Meg.”

“Oh,” says Bobby. “Oh, oh, yeah, well, that’s—you fucking  _ idiot _ , _ ”  _ he bellows so loudly it makes Dean flinch. “What the fuck were you thinking? What was going on in your head? I wanna know. Tell me.”

“I—I don’t know, I thought—“

“No, you didn’t.”

“Would you chill out, man?” says Dean.

“This is life and death, boy. You want to die? No? Siddown.”

“Oh, yeah? Then why are you drunk?” says Dean, because his face is flaming and Bobby’s looking at him like his dad used to before he would snap and throw things around and then slink off for weeks at a time.

“I’m drunk so I don’t have to watch you fail,” says Bobby. “So I don’t have to watch you die—“

“Well, maybe I don’t want to watch either,” says Dean.

Bobby stares at him for a long time. He scrubs a hand over his face. It’s shaking. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, once, as if to clear it. When he speaks, his voice is perfectly even.

“Sit down,” he says.

Dean sits.

“So far,” says Bobby, “you’ve done a pretty good job of laying low. I asked Balthazar to make you an outfit that would effectively make you a nonentity, and he did it. Now it’s up to you. In training, I want you to stay away from the things you’re good at. That means weaponry. You’re a crack shot, fairly good with a knife—“

“Not that good.”

“Good enough. You could handle a bow or learn to use any of the advanced thingamajigs they might throw at you. I don’t want you to show off, and I don’t want you to embarrass yourself. So stick to survival skills. Don’t give ‘em a show. Don’t give ‘em anything to use on you. Blend in.”

“That’s why you didn’t want me talking to Meg and Crowley,” says Dean.

“You should never have talked to anyone,” says Bobby, “not even Jo, without it being part of a strategy to win.” Dean opens his mouth, and Bobby cuts him off. “And you are going to try to win. You are not going to give up.”

“Why?”

The word hangs between them. Bobby eyes Dean bleakly.

“If you die, you don’t have to go home,” he says. “If you die, I have to. Which means I get to watch what happens to your brother when they send you home in bits. Why are you gonna try to win? Because I say so. Don’t ask me questions you already know the answer to. Idjit.”

“You tell Jo that same pretty speech?” says Dean.

Bobby scowls. “She didn’t need it,” he says. “But if she did, I would. ‘Cause that’s my job.”

“You’re doin’ real great at it.”

Bobby folds his arms. “You have to practice to be this annoying?”

“It’s a gift,” says Dean, smiling humorlessly and tipping his chair onto the back legs.

“Well, lose it. From here on out, you’re the perfectest prince there ever was and you ain’t done anything wrong in your life. You hear? You can give me lip, but not them.”

“Yeah.”

“You call me sir when you talk to me.”

“Yes, sir,” says Dean. They look at each other like strangers.

“If you get approached by any of the lowlifes about alliances,” says Bobby, “you say no. They’ll only slow you down. One of the heavy hitters? You talk to me first. You understand, you say, I gotta think about it, and then you talk. To me.”

“Yes, sir,” says Dean. Bobby’s face wrenches, and he smooths it out with effort and sighs.

“If anyone else tries to talk to you, be friendly,” he says. “But not too friendly. The only one you gotta stay away from, all the way, is Castiel.”

Dean’s chest thuds. “Which one’s he?”

Bobby rolls his eyes. “Come on. District 2’s murder machine in a trench coat. Rumor is he’s writing up a kill list, gonna pick you all off one by one. He gets anything, the—the food you like, the way you walk, the size of your goddamn pinky finger, anything he gets makes you easier to kill. Now, he’s going to see your interview, there’s no getting around it, but outside of that I don’t want him to see a hair on your head. You understand me? If you have to hide behind a potted plant every time he walks past, do it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bobby scowls.

“Training over,” he says. “Get out.”

“You gave Jo an hour and a half.”

“She’s nice to me.”

“But—“

“Now get.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok but actually fuck the finale. Also I’m in love with Meg Masters


	4. 4

The next day training begins. Dean sticks to the emptiest of the stations, the boring things like camouflage and shelters, and he gets a little too into learning about which plants and such are poisonous, and so on. What can he say? It reminds him of Sammy.

At one point Crowley and Meg veer past in hushed conversation. When Dean waves, they look startled and turn their backs.

Besides the survival skill stations, the only station that stands empty is knife work. It’s strange—seems like it’d be popular with these Career types. Maybe they don’t think it’s impressive enough? Doesn’t make much sense.

“Dean?”

Dean recognizes her before he can place her. The redhead from 3. She’s got a keen curiosity about her face, and she’s smiling. Next to her is 3’s male tribute, a spindly Asian kid who looks like he’s never seen the sun.

“Charlie Bradbury,” says the redhead, sticking out a hand. Dean shakes it.

“Hey,” he says, a little awkwardly.

“This is Kevin,” Charlie adds, and the Asian kid waves. His shoulders are hunched and his eyes look sort of shell shocked. He won’t last long, Dean thinks.

By the end of the day, he thinks otherwise. Charlie and Kevin spend the day taking turns talking his ear off about various scientific theories about the probability equations of whatever and whatever that form the structure of the game and decide all the layout of this that and the other thing, and Dean doesn’t understand a damn thing but by God if he doesn’t respect the hell out of it. Charlie has an easy familiarity about her that makes it easy to trust her, although Dean doesn’t. Kevin doesn’t trust her either, if the way his eyes dart around is anything to go by, and he also doesn’t trust Dean, and he’s a bona fide genius, and all of that adds up to somebody Dean likes.

The next day Dean tries to stay away from them—some kind of half hearted attempt to do what Bobby wanted. He stays away from everyone, mostly, with a fair amount of success. He learns how to make a poultice for different infections, how to treat a burn, how to cauterize a wound and set a bone. That knife throwing station is still empty. It’s starting to bug him.

On the third day he figures he’ll benefit from their mistakes. He steps up to the station. The woman running it seems thrilled to finally get some action. She gives Dean a few basic pointers he already knows, shows him where to stand, and starts the simulation on medium difficulty. 10 targets in quick succession. Dean throws, hears the satisfying  _ thud-thud-thud-thud  _ of the knives hitting their marks. He hits all the targets but one, gets bullseye on three, and when he throws his hands up in victory he realizes that the entire room has gone quiet. 

“Hello, Dean,” says a low, gravelly voice directly behind his ear. Dean whips around. His heart nearly stops right then.

It’s Castiel. He’s wearing his trench coat and he has his arms at his sides, and his eyes are perfectly blank surfaces, like frozen lakes.

No one moves. No one stirs. No one even bothers to feign disinterest. Everyone is watching—Dean can see them out of the corners of his eyes, faces turned towards him with ravenous curiosity.

“Castiel,” says Castiel.

“I know,” says Dean without thinking. Realizes what a goddamn stupid thing that is to say, curses himself, says, “I saw your wings.” Which is even stupider.

Castiel doesn’t even react. He doesn’t have a mean face. It’s open and earnest and intense, knowing in a way that makes Dean’s stomach lurch. He looks at Dean like Dean is a puzzle that he’s already figured out, but doesn’t mind looking at some more.

Dean’s hands are sweaty. He wipes them off on his jeans and offers one out to Castiel. Castiel doesn’t seem to notice it. His eyes are fixed on Dean’s like an iron grip.

“May I?” he says.

Dean has no idea what the fuck he’s talking about. Dean nods.

Castiel steps past Dean—their shoulders brushing once, Dean’s forest green tee against the trench coat—and up to the knife throwing station. 

Dean finds his feet well enough to back up, but he can’t look away. Castiel runs eyes over the knives laid out in front of him. He gives the woman a nod, and she starts the simulation. Hardest difficulty. 20 targets, rapid fire.

Castiel uses knives like a bird fucking flies. Like thinking or breathing. It’s too fast to see, but when the simulation ends Dean doesn’t need to check the scoreboard to know that he got every target, dead center.

*

After his humiliation a la Castiel, Dean’s a bit nervous for his private showing in front of Heaven, where he’ll get a score that will determine how seriously people take him in the Games. All things considered, then, it goes pretty well. Uneventful. He shoots some things. He doesn’t miss.

Afterwards, he skips dinner. Bobby’s probably heard everything by now, and Dean doesn’t feel up to that fallout.

He holes up in his quarters instead to get the scores as they’re broadcast on TV. When Castiel scores an honest to God twelve Dean just laughs. There’s a vicious stab of satisfaction in knowing he got upstaged by somebody impossible. A whole lot of fear, too, but he tamps that down for now, tries not to think about  _ the size of your pinky finger  _ and how much information Castiel must have gotten from Dean’s few minutes with the knives. How he is almost certainly a dead man walking.

He ends up thinking about it for a while.

The female district 2 gets an 8, and the female 4 a 10. Charlie and Kevin both get fours, which means they’re almost definitely trying to be underestimated. The boy with the sharp smile from District 10 gets an impressive 7, as does Jo. Dean scrapes a 6. Not bad. Good enough to not be easy pickings. Bad enough that he’s no one’s target. Crowley and Meg get fives. Dean gets a steaming apple pie by pressing a button and lets his brain churn while he eats.

It really doesn’t seem like he has a chance to win. That should be a crushing blow. He should be on the floor crying. He feels nothing instead. The apple pie goes down tasteless, so that’s probably a sign of some deep internal anguish he’s repressing. He wonders if Sam’s been watching all this go down, or if he’s kept his eyes shut like Dean told him to. He kind of hopes Sam’s been watching. What does Sam think of Castiel? What does Sam think of Dean and his no-better-than-average performance so far? Does he think Dean’s playing a long game? Has he accepted yet that Dean is going to die?

At least it isn’t Sammy.

*

Dean’s still avoiding Bobby, so he heads up to the roof. There’s a sort of garden up there—flowers and shit like that. It’s freezing. You can see all of Heaven. Apparently it gets dark like everywhere else. Below him, the city spreads all out like the sky, glittering and glowing, some of the lights moving sluggishly against the night and some of them standing still.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Holy shit, man,” says Dean. He gulps and rubs his chest. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“That’s probably against the rules,” says Castiel. He steps up to the edge of the roof and surveys the ground below. “Killing you before the games.” 

Dean isn’t sure whether to laugh. Castiel’s hands are clasped behind his back. He looks like a soldier. The light hollowly illuminates his face, the line of his jaw, and makes his eyes glow like there’s fire in them.

“You looking forward to that?” says Dean.

Castiel’s eyes flicker to him. “To what?”

“Y’know. Killing me.” It was supposed to be a joke, lighten the mood, but Dean’s voice flattens bitterly at the end, and Castiel treats the question with grave solemnity. Tips his head to the side, his mouth parting, his eyebrows furrowing.

“Why would I look forward to killing you?” he says.

“I don’t know. Kind of thing you do for fun.”

“That’s not my idea of fun,” says Castiel. He says it in an oddly polite way that seems to leave room for differences of opinion, in case murder is Dean’s favorite pastime. He turns back to look at the city again and pokes absently at the air in front of them—at, it turns out, something that seems to be a field of electricity keeping them on the roof. It ripples and shimmers when Castiel touches it. Dean frowns.

“Look, I’m sorry if I insulted you today,” says Dean. “Using your—mojo—I didn’t know that was your thing. I…” He trails off. Castiel gives him another long, quizzical look.

“No one else here seems to like knives,” is all he says. 

Dean takes that to mean he’s probably in the clear in terms of pissing off the murder machine. He takes a moment for a silent breath of relief before he says, “You know, I should probably—“

“I need to talk to you,” Castiel says at the same moment. 

Dean stops. “Uh, what?”

“My friends in neighboring districts have decided to form an alliance. I believe it’s customary.”

All the wetness has left Dean’s mouth. He licks his cracked lips, and Castiel’s eyes dart down and up again. “The Careers, yeah.”

“Angels,” says Castiel drily. He jerks his head in a little dismissive motion. “We’re—rebranding. I came to talk to you—“

“Hang on. You followed me up here?”

“I was coming here,” says Castiel irritably, “already, because of the flowers, and you were here, and I needed to talk to you.”

Dean’s head feels light and empty. He wonders if he’s going to faint. “Because of the flowers.”

“Yes. I’m very fond of flowers—and insects.”

“Oh,” says Dean.

“I need to ask you if you would want to join the alliance. Lend your services, in exchange for protection.”

Dean stares at him for a long time, dizzy. 

“To the Careers?”

“The Angels,” says Castiel, “yes.”

He shuffles around so his whole body is facing Dean, head-on, and Dean realizes, suddenly, that Castiel’s tie isn’t tied properly. It’s loose and crooked, and he didn’t tuck it under the collar of his shirt.

“Me?” says Dean.

“I—we thought you would be useful.”

“I’m not.” It tumbles out of his mouth before he can stop it.

Castiel’s mouth falls open, and they gape at each other for a few moments before Dean says, “Look—I think you have me mixed up with someone else.”

Castiel’s eyes twitch. “I don’t think so,” says Castiel.

“What could you possibly want me for?” says Dean. He’s getting irrationally angry—he can hear the snap in his own voice—but inside he feels none of it. All he can think about is how much he’d like to fix Castiel’s tie.

Castiel takes a step forward. He’s right  _ there,  _ he shouldn’t be so close, but there’s no way in hell Dean’s backing down. His eyes are bright and curious, kind in the cruel way of those humane rat traps Sam likes, and he says, “You don’t think you deserve it?”

“I don’t want it,” says Dean, “and I don’t understand why you’re giving it to me—“

“You don’t want it?”

Dean looks at him and sighs.

“No,” says Dean.

Castiel squints. “Why?” he says.

“I don’t want to die because somebody I trusted stabbed me in the back,” says Dean. “I want to know who my enemies are.”

“You think loyalty has a place in the Games?”

“Oh, I know it doesn’t.” Dean swallows, hard. Castiel’s hair is messy, and his eyes are soft, and he looks—well, in this light, he’s breathtaking.

“I’m gonna die, Cas,” says Dean. As if he’s appealing to someone who cares.

The nickname sits like an ache in his chest, and it’s the twitch in Castiel’s eyes.

Dean steps back. More of a stumble, really.

“So you can take your offer,” he says, viciously, “and you can shove it up your lily-white ass.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys thanks for reading. Honestly it makes me so happy that people like it!!! Your comments make my day!!!


	5. 5

Bobby won’t talk to him.

“Jo, could you tell the male tribute he’s eating like a pig?”

“I’m right here,” says Dean.

“You’re eating like a pig,” says Jo.

“Thanks.”

It would be a-OK by Dean except for that interviews are tomorrow and he’s theoretically supposed to prepare. And after that is the arena. And Jo has been training with Bobby for upwards of four hours every day. Not to mention he couldn’t sleep last night thinking about Cas’ kill list with his name at the top. So after lunch he goes to hunt down Balthazar. Maybe now that he’s tanked so spectacularly Balthazar won’t have any qualms about helping him.

He finds Balthazar lounging by the pool in a leopard print bathrobe and sunglasses. When Dean approaches, Balthazar brings the sunglasses down to the edge of his nose.

“You want help with the interview,” he says.

“Yeah,” says Dean.

“You won’t need to worry about it.” And Balthazar slips the sunglasses back on.

“What, ‘cause I’m doomed anyway?”

“Dean,” says Balthazar in a tone of exaggerated agony. “Dean, you child, I have dealt with you enough today.”

“No, I need you to—“

“You’re going to be fine, you uncharismatic lump of meat. Just smile and nod and no one will like you and you will do fine.”

Dean folds his arms. “You’re giving me some mixed messages, here.”

“I don’t think you can lose at this point,” says Balthazar.

“What are you talking about?”

Balthazar waves a hand. “Get out,” he drones.

“But—“

“And if I have to ask again, I’ll kill you myself, damn the consequences.” Balthazar chuckles, gleeful and acidic, and wriggles in his lounge chair like a spotted slug.

*

So Balthazar has found a new way to be unhelpful. Dean’s so hopeless it’s funny, now? He starts to wonder if Balthazar’s heard about the rejected alliance before he remembers. Balthazar knows Cas. Balthazar knows everything. Balthazar’s probably seen Dean’s name on the kill list—Dean’s never seen Castiel’s handwriting but he imagines he can see the even, careful way Cas would spell out  _ Dean.  _ Dean’s chest seizes up and he goes back to talk to Bobby. Damn the consequences.

When he goes into the training room Bobby takes one look and stands up to leave. Dean grabs his arm. Bobby looks at Dean sorta tired and resentful with hooded eyes.

“Bobby, I’m sorry,” says Dean.

Bobby shrugs off Dean’s hand. “Don’t be. I got something to tell your brother now. How I couldn’t even get a word in, you were so busy digging your own grave.”

“I didn’t—“

“What do you want from me?” says Bobby.

Dean swallows. His throat is a mass of aching. “I don’t know what to do,” he says.

“Seems like you know well enough,” says Bobby, “to do whatever the fuck you want.”

“Please.”

Bobby scowls.

“If we do this,” he says, “you do exactly what I say.”

Dean’s eyes sting. “Yeah.”

“I mean exactly. No arguments.”

“Done.”

Bobby turns away. He wanders to the table, pulls the chair out and sits heavily with his head low.

“We’ve got our work cut out for us, haven’t we?” he says.

Dean crosses over to the table, too. He sits down across from Bobby and tries to look like somebody Bobby can believe in.

“For your interview,” Bobby starts.

*

He can’t sit still. His interview outfit fits like a glove, no itching, but his muscles keep trying to jump out of his skin. He’s wearing a black suit with a bolo tie and a cowboy hat—shades of his theme from the chariot ride, but more sophisticated, less bumpkin.

_ Up till now, you’ve come off uncultured, aggressive, impulsive, emotionally constipated and stupid,  _ Bobby told him earlier,  _ so now you’ve got to shatter all that. No more blending in. Subvert their expectations. _

For now, all he can do is wait. And itch.

Their interviewer, Lucifer, is a sandy-haired man with a face like a ferret and a slippery smile. He has a hard time connecting with Raphael, the stern female tribute from District 1 whose hobbies seem to be Getting Power and Conquering and also Domination. But he quickly falls into an easy rapport with Gabriel—“please, call me Gabe”—who has a face Dean would very much like to punch. Anna from District 2 is even more of a nonentity than Dean had given her credit for. Then.

“Castiel!”

The crowd goes wild. Cas slowly makes his way up to the ornate seat waiting for him next to Lucifer. He’s wearing his trench coat. Somebody’s adjusted his tie. It seems like nothing much has changed, costuming wise.

Castiel reaches the chair and stops with solemn ceremony. His eyes are closed and his head is bowed, and his palms are pressed against his coat. He bows deeply, and straightens, and shadows unfurl on the wall behind him, on either side, unmistakable against the bright spotlight. Wings.

And when Cas opens his eyes, they’re glowing.

The audience oohs and ahs for about two seconds before Castiel’s face contorts and he throws up his arm. The trench coat reflects the two spots of light and the gasps dissolve into confused muttering.

Cas lowers his arm tentatively, his eyes pinched. When he figures out the light is gone, he looks a little lost and turns to stare at a man who must be his trainer. Lucifer pats the seat, and when Castiel doesn’t get the hint, he grabs Cas’ arm and drags him bodily down onto the cushion.

“Some kind of reflective contacts…” Balthazar is muttering from behind Dean. “Thought they could just…didn’t they warn…he’s only human, what were they thinking?”

On stage, Lucifer laughs it off. “You a little starstruck there, Castiel?” He smiles winningly. “Me, too.”

Castiel tilts his head to the left. “By who?”

“By you,” says Lucifer, “of course—so humble,” he hisses to the crowd.

“I don’t understand,” says Cas. He peers out at the audience. “There’s no one impressive here.”

Lucifer’s laugh is strained and overly loud. “And,” he says, “and of course, you got a—a mediocre score, a twelve…out of twelve…just the first tribute of the Games to achieve that number, nothing special, right?”

“In the arena, numbers are meaningless,” says Castiel. His back is rod straight. “You of all people should know that.”

Lucifer looks like he’s been struck. 

“In your opinion, then,” he says, and shoots the audience a sideways smirk. “What does decide who wins the games?”

“Independence of mind. Which I lack.” Cas laughs like it’s an inside joke. “I do think I could kill everyone here, though.” He grins a dorky grin. “So don’t count me out.”

“Far from it,” says Lucifer automatically, and then, “all the tributes? Nobody scares you?”

“I meant everyone,” says Cas. “In Heaven.”

That draws a laugh from the audience. Cas looks puzzled at the reaction.

“So, outside of—“ Lucifer starts, and can’t think of a nice word for ‘murder’ in time, “—all this, what do you like to do? What do you think you’d be doing, if you were home right now?”

Cars’ hands twist together in his lap.

“Cleaning,” he says with an air of confidentiality. “Or gardening. Now is around the time I do my annual spring cleaning. Categorize my possessions, wipe down surfaces, plant new flowers—“

“You have a favorite?” says Lucifer.

“Well,  _ tagetes erecta,  _ of course, and I’m partial to  _ primula obconica,  _ but—“ He laughs and spreads his hands. “I know that’s controversial—“

“They must have told him to be himself,” Balthazar murmurs. “God, what a disaster—“

Lucifer jerks a thumb at Cas. “This guy, right?” He laughs. Nobody laughs with him. “Castiel, tell me. Is there anyone you just can’t wait to come home to?”

“My father,” says Cas. “He’s never failed me.”

“Aww,” says Lucifer.

“Maybe if I win, I’ll finally meet him.”

“Okay. Castiel, everybody!”

Cas bows to some scattered applause. They try the wings thing again, but Cas doesn’t time it right and they end up sticking around on the wall for a second after he’s run off. Dean applauds him long and hard and adds in a whoop for good measure.

Cas takes his seat. His cheeks are flushed and his hair sticks to his forehead. His eyes aren’t emotionless anymore, and Dean is starting to think that they probably never were. He just didn’t know how to read Cas’ face before. The little inscrutable signs. The open pain of paralysis.

Cas’ eyes flicker over to stare directly at Dean, and Dean wrenches his gaze away, blood pounding in his ears. He stares down at his slacks and his hands twisting in his lap. 

He looks back at Cas.

Cas is still watching him with an expression that’s probably curiosity. Dean swallows over the dryness in his throat. He smiles. Winks, and gives Cas a thumbs up.

He turns his head away and pretends to be deeply engaged in his program so he doesn’t have to see Cas’ reaction.

Charlie’s next, and the audience warms to her immediately. Her style of blunt charm and easy humor plays well with the crowd. She comes off as not only sweet, but strong, and a real contender.

“What about you? Anyone back home? Who are you winning for?” says Lucifer, to close it off.

“Oh, my parents,” says Charlie, “of course, and also my girlfriend.”

The room goes quiet.

“I think it’s great,” says Lucifer, “that you have a girl friend who you’re close enough to that you’d be thinking about her all the way from here. That’s sweet.”

The audience relaxes.

“Everyone should have someone who gets them,” says Lucifer.

“Absolutely,” says Charlie. Her nose wrinkles up when she smiles. “And someone you can kiss and cuddle—that’s a benefit. Too. Of having.” She’s gone bright red, and doesn’t seem to know what to do with her hands. “A girlfriend.”

Pure shock is written on every face. No one stirs or breathes. It’s like Charlie swore, or criticized Heaven, or killed someone right there.

“Thank you, Charlie,” says Lucifer. “That’s our time.”

After that Dean tunes most of it out. He’s sitting in a daze trying to process it. Charlie being that brave. Compared to her, Kevin comes off like cannon fodder. He probably meant to.

He gets some vague impressions of the others. The female tribute from district 4, Billie, could probably kill Dean in her sleep with her hands behind her back and never break a sweat. She seems nice. Hannah, the girl from 8, is nervous and kind. Jo goes, and Dean thinks she probably did well—she smiles and makes everyone laugh and has a steel to her that will win her sponsors. Then it’s Dean.

He walks up to the chair, tips his hat. Sits.

_ You’re going to need to talk about Sam,  _ Bobby had told him.  _ You’re going to need to talk about taking care of him after your old man skipped town. _

“Now, Dean,” says Lucifer. “You caused a real stir at the reaping. You want to talk about that?”

Glancing out over the haze of faces, Dean catches Balthazar’s eye. Balthazar gives him the barest of smiles and nods. I don’t think you can lose—what did he mean by that? That Dean could sink no lower?

_ I can’t,  _ Dean had said.  _ I can’t tell them he’s gone. They’ll send Sammy to a group home if they know he’s on his own. _

“Yeah,” says Dean. He clears his throat.

_ Dean,  _ Bobby had said, reaching out as if to take Dean’s hands and thinking better of it halfway through.  _ Dean, he’s already there. _

“Sam—“

Dean breathes.

_ You knew that. You didn’t think they wouldn’t notice. Right? _

“I take care of Sammy,” says Dean. “I always have. Always will. We’re brothers.”

“Admirable,” says Lucifer. He’s got kind of snakey eyes. “And your father—“

“He’s on a trip,” Dean interrupts harshly. “Gonna be back soon.”

“How old were you when your father left?” Lucifer finishes.

Dean inclines his head.

_ You need to tell them. _

“I was seven years old,” he says. “After my mom died, he went crazy for a few years trying to figure out who killed her, and then one day he didn’t come back—”

“Tragic,” says Lucifer. “Tragic.”

“No, look,” says Dean, “Sammy and I, we’re all we need. We look out for each other. He’s in a—“ Dean’s voice fails him and goes quiet. “A home,” he almost whispers, “right now, a group home, he—“

Lucifer opens his mouth. Dean talks right over him.

“But it’s not his home, and that’s why I gotta win. See, the Winchester boys, we don’t do things ‘cause we can. We don’t do ‘em cause we should.” Dean chuckles raggedly and the sound is soft and fond. His hand moves instinctively to his heart, to the pendant there, and rubs it. “We do ‘em because we have to.”

“Wise words,” Lucifer intones. He seems pretty bored, which is fair—Dean’s his twenty-second interview and you gotta lose steam somewhere. “Now, Dean, what would you say to your competitors? To the people who stand in the way of you getting your brother home?”

Dean looks out at the kids lined up in front of him. It’s like a fever dream. He has to look down. “Um—I’d say—“

He thinks about Crowley and Meg and Charlie. Kevin being cannon fodder, or a killer. And Cas. Of course. The murder machine and the nerdy kid who can’t keep his hands still.

“I’d say I’m sorry,” says Dean. “And—good luck.”

The buzz of adrenaline blocks out the end. Lucifer saying thank you, the crowd applauding—or not—it’s all lost. Dean heads back to his seat.

He tries not to pay attention to the rest. Crowley wears a black velvet suit and comes off utterly detestable, which only makes Dean like him more. Meg plays up the sassy, sexy take-no-names tough girl and tries to hide the patient gentleness that’s far more deadly.

It’s over. God, it’s over.

Dean’s hurrying off the stage in the thick of the stampede when he hears, “Dean. Dean.”

He turns. With disbelieving eyes, sees Cas—Castiel!—give him a very serious and careful thumbs up.

Dean can’t help it. He grins.

*

That night they get a huge tub of ice cream and eat it on the couch in front of the TV, the three of them, passing it back and forth while they watch the interviews replay.

“There’s new alliances this year,” says Jo to Dean, and it’s clear from the way Bobby goes guilty and shifty-eyed that this is information they’ve known for a while, that Dean hasn’t been privy to. “Crowley and Meg are rustling up support from some of the other lowlifes. They call themselves the Demons.”

“That why the Angels are rebranding?”

“I think so.”

“You gonna join ‘em?” says Dean. Jo doesn’t answer for a while.

“No,” she says finally. “I don’t think so. Are you?”

“I wouldn’t trust Crowley and Meg with my worst enemy,” says Dean affectionately.

Bobby looks at him sideways.

“People are talking about what happened with Castiel,” he says.

“The interview?”

“No, the—“ Bobby halts, hesitates, mimes a little thumbs up, and Dean’s blood runs cold.

“They saw that?” he says.

“Everybody did,” says Jo.

Dean sighs and takes the tub when she passes it to him. He sticks his spoon in and carves out a chunk. “I get that you wanted me to stay away from him—“

“It’s playing well,” says Bobby quietly.

“It is?” says Dean. “Why?”

“God knows why, it was an awful stupid thing to do. I just want to make sure you don’t—that you didn’t—“

Dean passes him the tub. Bobby hugs it to his chest.

“I don’t,” says Dean, “I didn’t, and I know. Give me some credit, Bobby.”

“You get that it didn’t mean anything to him.”

“Yeah, I got that,” says Dean testily.

*

He turns in early. He’ll be in the arena tomorrow, so he needs all the rest he can get. But he can’t sleep. Cas kills him over and over in his mind. Crowley and Meg lead an army against him. Jo is written on the back of his eyelids, and she looks into his eyes when she sinks the blade into his chest. Charlie laughs from her mountain as Dean falls. Somebody is burying him alive. They’re covering him in sand, it’s splashing over his ankles, his knees, his chest, and they’re sobbing, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Dean’s choking and they’re crying, the words incoherent, and then he flips it, it’s the other way around—Dean pins Cas like a butterfly and saws off his wings, bloody pin feathers on his hands, Cas screams and Dean lets him go, he goes miles and miles down, screaming the whole way. Benny from District 10 watches and smiles with blood on his teeth. When Sam hits the ground—

Dean wakes up with the feeling of falling and trembling muscles and sweat making his skin sticky.

It’s time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys!!!!! You make my day!!!!!


	6. 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mucking with some ages....but I can do that cause I’m the author ;)  
> Let the games begin!

The group home’s not too bad. Sam’s fallen in with some lesbians. Claire elbows him when he’s being a jerk and stretches into his space and helps beat up anyone who messes with him. He and Kaia talk books and she keeps them from doing anything too stupid, like running their mouths off about Heaven. She doesn’t stop them from skipping school to watch the Games live on the shitty TV in Claire’s room.

“Hey, BEANPOLE,” Claire yells, “it’s starting,” and Sam runs to flop down next to her. He pushes his hair out of his eyes.

The anthem of Heaven plays. The title card.

“Come on, come on,” Sam mutters.

“Hello, and welcome,” the announcer, Lucifer, drawls, “to the 74th annual Hunger Games!”

“Oh, God, I hate his face—“ says Claire.

“As our tributes prepare to enter the arena, we go now to an exclusive interview with—“

Sam groans.

“They’ve only got two minutes, it can’t take that long,” says Claire.

“What if it starts late?” Sam whines.

“I think that’s illegal.”

The Gamemaker on the screen is saying, “Thanks, Lucifer—I want to speak to a lot of what people have been asking me, about the way the arena’s going to work this year. Now, in past years, we’ve done some really creative stuff, and people have really liked it, but it’s mostly resulted in the tributes missing one key element of survival—like the desert island arena, where water was unavailable and all the coconuts got used up really quick—“ He laughs a little nervously. “And I also want to remind you guys, this is the seventy fourth time we’ve done this. Okay? It’s—it’s not—we’re going simple this year.”

“And as we all know,” says Lucifer, “simple can be deadly.”

“Yeah,” says Sam, “like my brother, who’s gonna  _ win _ —“

“Now we go live to the arena, as the tributes are raised onto their platforms,” says Lucifer. Trumpets start up, leading into another rendition of the anthem. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Games are about to begin.”

“Here we go,” says Sam wildly.

“First, let us all sing together for our national anthem.” Lucifer puts his hand to his heart.

“Carry on, my wayward son…there will be peace when you’re done…” Sam and Claire drone along.

The TV screen changes to a wide shot of the arena and Sam stops singing. Claire elbows him and he starts up again, haltingly. Nobody knows what happens if you don’t sing the anthem, but even among the delinquents of the group home, nobody wants to find out.

“Don’t you cry no more,” they sing tonelessly as the 24 tributes rise into view. Sam slithers off the bed and crawls up to the TV so his nose is almost touching.

“There,” he says amid the final flourishes of the anthem. “There he is—“

“Where?”

“Right there, that’s him—“

“I can’t see,” says Claire, “your big head’s blocking it.”

“Get up here,” says Sam.

Dean’s barely a speck, but he’s there. He’s standing tall. Claire wriggles into Sam’s space. “Which one is he?”

“That one.” Sam points.

“Which one?”

“That—“

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Lucifer roars. “Let the 74th annual Hunger Games begin!”

“That one?” says Claire.

“Yeah.”

“Huh.” She props up her chin with her fists. “Thought he’d be taller.”

They’ve got sixty seconds. The TV shows the clock. The arena’s just a big mess of woods, trees and crags and mountain as far as the eye can see, with the tributes circled on their platforms around the only patch of flat ground. The Cornucopia sticks up gold and elegant and ugly. Packs and weapons scattered all around. Dean’s scanning the terrain, must be, Sam can see his head moving. Analyzing what to go for and where to go. And then he stops. He’s got a plan.

“He’s got a plan,” says Sam.

“You think?” says Claire.

*

Dean’s got no plan.

Looking out at the Cornucopia, the supplies on the ground, the faces of the other tributes, he knows the only way he gets out of here is to run hard and fast. If he doesn’t snag anything, he runs the risk of dying from exposure, dehydration or starvation, or being easy pickings with no weapon. But every second he takes is a second anybody could stick him, and it looks like there’s lots of knives in the stockpile. Cas’ll be happy.

His time’s running out. Soon the gong will ring and he’ll have to move. There’s a pack of jerky almost at his feet and a container of water about a dozen feet away. He’ll dash in, get those, and then sprint for the woods.

*

“He’s probably gonna get one of those weapons,” says Sam, “over there, see?”

“That’d be cool,” says Claire. “Woah, look at that mace. You could just bash someone’s head in with that, imagine—“

*

Only a few seconds to go, and Dean finds himself searching the faces on the platforms for Jo. For Charlie. He doesn’t look for Cas, doesn’t want to see what Cas’ game face looks like, and then the gong goes, anyway, and Dean lurches forward. He scoops up the jerky, but as he’s heading for the water the girl from 10 grabs it. It’s too late to look for something else. Dean turns on his heel and runs for his life.

*

“What did he get?” says Sam. “What did he—“

“Not much, that’s for sure,” says Claire.

“Where’s he going?”

“He’s leavin’.”

“What—why doesn’t he—he doesn’t even have a weapon,” says Sam. “How’s he supposed to kill everyone?”

“I dunno, man.”

They watch Dean vanish into the woods.

“Follow him,” Sam growls at the TV. “Follow him—what’s he doing? I can’t see him—“

“And would you look at that,” says Lucifer, “Castiel from District 2 has already made his first kill. Asmodeus from District 7, with a mace to the skull. Very impressive from Castiel.”

*

After a few minutes, Dean slows to a jog, and then to a walk. Partly ‘cause he’s got no water, and jerky’s salty, so he’s got to save his energy. Partly ‘cause it turns out the woods are full of surprises. Snares, trip wires, ropes, pit falls, cleverly disguised bear traps with big metal teeth. It’d be scarier if Dean wasn’t used to this, dodging Heaven’s little ways of enforcing obedience, of saying,  _ you think you’re the hunter, but we are _ . It didn’t work back home. It won’t work here.

He disables whatever traps he can. Unties knots, clears away leaves to reveal the danger underneath, that sort of thing. Yes, he knows it’s stupid and sentimental. No, he doesn’t care. Nobody deserves to die that way.

It starts to dawn on him the necessity of a sleeping bag or a blanket, or something to carry water in if he finds it. Things that seemed like luxuries he couldn’t afford when he was standing in a ring with 23 tributes about to be armed to the teeth. They seem a little more important now. He pushes the worry into the back of his head. He’s just gotta take it one step at a time.

Maybe it’s naive, but he’s starting to think he’s on his own in this part of the arena. There don’t seem to be animals, either. He’s been walking for a while now, no sounds but the wind, no signs of the kind of life that has blood and a heartbeat. Not good for hunting, but good for not dying yet.

*

“The race for the Cornucopia, always a rocky start for our tributes, but these Games it’s looking to be all out war,” says Lucifer. Sam hugs his knees and squints into the bit of the forest on the screen. “Rumors of an alliance between tributes of the, erm, less fortunate districts are proving to be true—look at that, tributes from Districts 10 and 12 working with the tributes of 6 and 7—a spectacular sight. Supplies left to the wayside as these two formidable forces collide. It looks like the tributes from 1, 2 and 4 have buffed up as well. We’re looking at a significant expansion from the usual, they’re drawing from district 5, district 8 and 9, and it looks like we’ve got the female from 11 on that side as well.”

“Jo,” Sam breathes.

“She’s with them?”

“Maybe he’s wrong,” says Sam.

“He better be,” says Claire. “We don’t want her allied with those dicks.”

“So those tributes have the advantage of numbers as well as heavy hitters,” Lucifer drawls on, “they’ve got Castiel, of course, and Raphael and Billie from 4, Gabriel from District 1—oh.” His mouth forms the letter. “Well. This is surprising. We’ve got some of the, let’s call them the lowlife alliance for now, we’ve got some lowlifes stripping off of the main pack. Huh. Outnumbered, outgunned, and now two of them are heading for the forest.”

“Dean,” says Sam. He pokes at the little running figures like ants on the screen, heading in the direction Dean had gone. “They’re following him.”

“You sure?” says Claire. “Cause, uh, no offense, but your brother doesn’t really seem like he’s going to be a target.”

“But this doesn’t look like a surrender,” says Lucifer. “They’ve got some kind of plan.”

“It’s Dean. I know it is,” says Sam. “And he doesn’t know.”

Lucifer grins.

“We’ll find out after the break,” he says. “Stick with us.”

“Don’t you—“ says Sam, and the TV switches to a trailer for the new season of Dr. Sexy. “No.” He smashes his face into his hands. “You gotta be kidding.”

“Dude, I really don’t think your brother’s worth following,” says Claire. “He seems kinda useless.”

*

Dean figures out that he’s being followed about when the whooping starts. It’s like some kind of hunting call, and it starts distant and gets closer and closer, no matter how hard he tries to shake ‘em. They throw in his name every once in a while. “Dean…Dean!” It gets him feeling helpless and cornered. It gets him pissed off.

He unfastens the chain of one of the bear traps from a tree and loops it around his arm so the trap dangles next to him while he walks. That could fetch someone a blow. There aren’t so many traps around anymore, and Dean knows from watching the Games what that means: he’s nearing the place where the forest will turn into something else. Probably something more deadly. Dean’s not eager to find out what that will be, so he’s considering slipping into some dark and quiet hiding spot and hunkering down until whoever’s on his tail gives up and leaves him alone. Then someone bursts out of the trees. 

Dean only has a second to recognize the blond girl from 10 before a jet of fire roars out of the gun in her hands. He dives to avoid it. The heat is intense and boiling even when it misses him. He swings the trap at her head and misses—it’s a big, bulky thing, it doesn’t move like it should, and she has a  _ fucking flamethrower, oh my God.  _ If that thing gets Dean, he’s toast. Literally.

*

“Woah,” says Sam. “That girl’s hot. I mean, I know she’s going after Dean, but—”

“Smoking,” says Claire. She elbows him. “Get it—”

“That’s not funny, man, she’s trying to kill my brother—”

“Sorry—”

*

The girl—Jessica, her name was?—shoots again, and the bolt of fire singes Dean’s side with a tearing pain and sets a bush ablaze. The acrid smell of burning is like a physical thing, and it turns Dean’s stomach, it brings back that thing he’s never going to think about and he’s never going to stop thinking about, it puts him right back in the head of a four year old kid watching the flames eat up his mom forever. Jessica’s slight and quick on her feet, but her bulky backpack throws off her balance, so when Dean swings the trap again, she doesn’t dodge quite far enough. The trap hits the flamethrower so it tumbles out of the girl’s hand and skitters to the ground—she lunges for it, but Dean catches her halfway and they crash down. He hits her over and over, his fist like a blunt instrument, until she stops moving. Her face is a mess of blood, it’s pouring out of her nose and down along her chin, and her cheeks are mottled blue. Dean lifts her up and pries the backpack off of her back. There’s a knife sticking out of it, where someone tried to hit her and caught the fabric instead. He lifts it out and weighs it.

The cannon hasn’t gone off yet.

*

“Kill her,” Sam chants, and Claire joins in, “kill her, kill her, kill her—”

*

But Dean stands. He wraps his fingers around the knife, settles the straps of the backpack around his shoulders and goes for the flamethrower before he realizes it’s gone. Before he realizes suddenly that Crowley has been standing, a little behind a tree. Watching him. For a while, now. The flamethrower’s at ease in his hand.

Dean waves. Crowley’s beady eyes narrow.

“What’re you waiting for?” says Dean. “Come on out and join the party.”

Crowley does step out, moving in the way of prey trying to act like a predator. His eyes don’t leave Dean even for a second, although his face is full of contempt. “Not much of a party if you keep killing the guests.”

“What can I say?” They fall into a nice circling rhythm, moving around the girl’s unconscious body. “She broke the house rules.”

*

“Kill him—”

*

Dean smiles. Crowley doesn’t return it. His eyes glint, though. Seems like that’s Crowley’s version of a smile.

“Gotta say, I’m flattered. I thought I was small fish,” says Dean. “You’re gonna gank the angels, and you can’t even face ‘em?”

Crowley says silkily, “That’s a callous way to talk about what I’m going to do to your boyfriend.”

*

“That’s a callous way to talk about what I’m going to do to your—”

The screen switches off of Dean and the boy from 12, and Lucifer says, “Now, the battle at the Cornucopia has taken a strange turn—”

“What?” Sam yells. “What?”

“The Career tributes seem to be retreating in order to preserve the supplies they’ve gathered. The strategy of the lowlifes in the fight seems to have been to keep up a strong defense while wrecking the precious stash of supplies that often clinches a win for Career districts—”

“Show me my brother,” Sam roars. Claire shushes him. “Why won’t they—”

*

Dean barks a laugh. Crowley’s eyebrows go up, and his lips curl smugly. Dean stares. They’ve stopped walking, at some point. Dean’s at Jessica’s feet, and Crowley’s at her head with the flamethrower in his hand.

“You’re serious,” says Dean.

“As the Devil,” says Crowley.

Dean’s fingers tighten on the knife. “Who’s my boyfriend?” says Dean.

Crowley tsks. “You really don’t know? Got all the angels kissing your boots, do you? Such a little whore.”

It hits Dean like a slap, but he doesn’t let it show. “First I heard about it.”

“We know about the roof,” Crowley hisses. Dean stiffens. “We saw your charade at the interviews. So nice to see the sugar baby helping his daddy feel better after a fuck up—“

“What the hell are you talking about?” says Dean, his mouth bone dry. Crowley can’t possibly be saying what it sounds like he’s saying.

“What does he see in you?” says Crowley, with a soft and unrestrained fury that turns the words into lava. The flamethrower’s still held loose in his hand, like he doesn’t even need it. Intimidation. It’s working.

Dean swallows. He fingers the knife, makes the minute adjustments that turn him from someone standing still to someone ready to run.

“I have perky nipples,” he says. Then he bolts.

*

“Career tributes are splitting tasks in a similar way to the lowlifes now, it’s as if they’re copying strategy. Tributes like Billie, Raphael and Castiel are driving the demons back while some of the lower-scoring tributes—I see Hannah, Zachariah, Uriel, Anna—are hauling supplies into the arena, presumably to set up camp somewhere safe from the destruction of the lowlifes. Castiel takes on Dagon, look at him go—” The camera does a close up shot on the kid from 4. His eyes are squinted and blood sprays across his cheek as he slices Dagon’s neck open.

Claire stiffens next to Sam. “That’s weird.”

“What’s weird?” says Sam.

*

Crowley’s cursing and crashing after him, but Dean’s fast, he’s always been fast. He was the fastest in school, he could beat all the boys in a race so they would let him play ball with them even if they didn’t like it. Crowley’s fast too, for all he doesn’t look it, and every once in a while a lick of scorching fire shoots out with a hiss and sets things roaring. They’re going to start a forest fire at this rate. Dean keeps his head down and the pack up high on his shoulders and dodges, zigzags. He swerves and doubles around and mostly just sprints. His lungs are on fire—they already were, from the  smoke and the dehydration of a day on his feet, but now it’s like his chest got sent to hell and burnt to a crisp. Then resurrected and burnt again.

*

“That guy,” says Claire, “he kinda looks like my dad.”

“Huh,” says Sam indifferently. But Claire’s staring right at the TV, pressing her nose to it to see Castiel more closely.

“Like, exactly like my dad,” says Claire.

“Weird.” He tugs her shoulder back. “I wanna see—”

“No, this is—”

*

Dean runs and runs and runs until the woods change. No more traps, and the air’s different. He doesn’t see it so much as feel it. And then he runs a while longer. Once he’s got his body in a rhythm, once he gets it in a groove, he can ride that groove till he dies and not even notice. He runs until he can’t hear Crowley anymore. Runs until he could have outstripped Secretariat himself and then some. Runs until he stumbles onto mud and looks down to see water. 

Water! A little filmy pond under a tree.

Dean drops to his knees involuntarily with a hoarse gasp. The knife hits the mud. Fumbling with the straps, he tears the pack off of his shoulder. His fingers scrabble over the fabric searching for the zipper and find it, yank it back. He starts rummaging through the contents. A folded sheet of plastic, a sleeping bag, a container of crackers, a small tin of ointment, and an empty water bottle with iodine drops. Dean unscrews the cap shakily, scoops water in, and adds the drops. While he waits he surveys the landscape around him. It only takes a few seconds for him to realize.

The trees are full of tracker jacker nests. Like a canopy of grey poking out of the leaves. Dean’s laugh rattles in his chest. That must’ve given Crowley a scare. No one knows tracker jackers like the kids from Eleven, and everyone’s scared shitless of ‘em. The only one who’ll come near him here is Jo, at least until people get desperate.

Then again, he hadn’t thought anyone would be after him this early. Things aren’t going according to plan.

So people think he’s allied with Cas. That really sucks, and it’s all Dean’s fault, isn’t it? Shoulda just kept his distance. Now he’s got a big fat target on his back and not even an alliance to show for it.

He doesn’t believe Crowley about people thinking he’s doing some sort of gay shit. Crowley’s just gunning to lose him sponsors after what happened with Charlie, and he’s one of those guys who makes everything about sex. Part of his charm.

*

“The Career tributes have set up camp,” says Lucifer, “but all is not well.”

Sam’s got a hand on Claire’s shoulder keeping her from hogging the screen again. Castiel’s on the screen with Billie and Raphael, talking to the redhead, Anna, who keeps gesturing wildly.

“When the Careers separated, Uriel went on a rampage and killed Hannah before Anna was able to stop him.” Lucifer hisses softly through his teeth. “It’s a sad day when your allies wreak more damage than your enemies. Now the Careers somberly prepare for the night. No one will sleep deeply.”

*

Dean lifts the water bottle to his lips and takes one blessed sip. The water’s just cool enough to be straight outa heaven—the one Sammy prays to, not the washed up poodle show that put Dean in this place. He drinks slow and careful, licks his lips and then puts the cap back on and tightens it for later. Stowing the water bottle in the pack, he slides it onto his back again, picks up the knife and sets off.

He can almost imagine he’s at home. This place has the feeling of total isolation you can’t get anywhere else. The quiet hum of the tracker jackers and the hushed rustle of the leaves, the spring of moss underfoot, and for the first time since he got here he doesn’t feel like a dead man walking. It’s getting dark, but he finds shelter without much difficulty—the terrain is rocky, with plenty of outcroppings, and he camouflages a small cave with ferns and branches, then ducks inside.

Dean unrolls the sleeping bag and munches on some crackers, eats a couple of strips of jerky until the weakness in his stomach lessens somewhat. He’ll go hunting tomorrow. For now, he listens to the silence.

He’s asleep before he knows it.

He wakes up to the sound of Carry On My Wayward Son and remembers. He’s got to see the faces of the people who died today. So he sticks his head out and looks. The emblem of Heaven blazes across the sky.

The first face is Dagon, from district 6. That means Charlie and Kevin are safe, and Cas—of course, but it still makes Dean breathe a little easier. Both the tributes from 7, Asmodeus and Lilith, and the tributes from 8, too—Uriel and Hannah. Seems like the Angels and the Demons both gave as good as they got. Then the girl from 10. So she never woke up. Maybe Dean’s blows did her in, or maybe somebody stumbled on her and finished the job. Maybe Crowley snuck back and slit her throat so there’d be more supplies for the other, healthier tributes, like him. Seems like something Crowley would do.

Anyway, it’s one person who might be alive if it wasn’t for Dean, and it bows his shoulders a bit, but nothing he can’t handle.

The trumpets end with a flourish, and the sky goes black.

Dean sighs. One day done. Six tributes dead. Eighteen still kicking. Time to survive the night.

**Author's Note:**

> I will never ever forgive the homophobes for that ending. So I must write out my emotions...so this.  
> Tell me what you think! Rant about the finale or Destiel! It makes my day!


End file.
